


On Thistles and Dahlias

by blue_blue_electricblue



Series: unironic ironic elias/reader [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Flowers, Forehead Kisses, Hanahaki Disease, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Romance, Unrequited Love, it's a hanahaki au expect all the blood and choking that comes with that, listen i'm allowed to be self indulgent okay, oh right blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23722528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_blue_electricblue/pseuds/blue_blue_electricblue
Summary: It was a bad, bad idea to fall in love with your hot omniscient boss with a penchant for snogging the life out of you.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Reader
Series: unironic ironic elias/reader [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754923
Comments: 18
Kudos: 111





	On Thistles and Dahlias

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juiice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juiice/gifts).



> inspired by [this]() tweet, because i am trapped in an elias writing prison and i have no self control

You wake to the sound of Elias putting his clothes back on.

“Good morning,” he says as he checks his appearance in the mirror, helping himself to your skin and hair products, which, to be fair, he uses more than you.

“Morning,” you manage, struggling to sit up in bed. Your brain is still booting up this early in the morning, but you would like to make decent conversation all the same. “Up already?”

“As you see,” he says, still absorbed in his reflection. You couldn’t blame him. If you looked like him, you’d never stop staring at the mirror.

But, as it happens, you do  _ not _ look like him, and he in fact looks like him, so you content yourself with staring at him as opposed to yourself. It’s a wonderful exercise, staring at Elias, and he so enjoys the attention. The  _ watching. _ You enjoy the curve of his neck, the delicacy of his hands (delicacy you know to be manufactured—those hands have killed, there is nothing  _ truly _ delicate about them, just a pretty lie to lure fools like you into their grasp), the way he traces his cheekbone with his fingertips, mapping his own face to be sure to be satisfied with it. He always is, which is good, because you don’t know how  _ anyone _ could be  _ dissatisfied  _ with it.

“I need to leave now,” he says and finally turns his attention away from his own reflection. He turns back to you, and his eyes pin you in place for a moment before he smiles at you.

You feel something fluttering in your chest as he steps carefully across the room toward you, looking powerful and put-together and  _ stunning, _ your heart rate picks up when he leans down and there’s a lump in your throat—

He presses a soft kiss to your lips and your hand instinctively wraps around his tie, keeping him near you. He laughs quietly.

“I’ll see you at work, then?” he asks into your mouth.

You loosen your grip on his tie and he stands back up. “Of course,” you say softly. Then, just so you don’t sound  _ so _ incredibly whipped, you add, nodding at his tie, “I can’t believe you wear a  _ balthus _ knot. You are unbearably dramatic.”

“Well, you only wear a Windsor because no one ever taught you how to properly tie anything  _ better, _ and as a matter of fact, it doesn’t suit your face. You should really do some research into better knots.”

“Get out of my flat, you prick,” you grumble.

Elias smiles his  _ insufferable _ ‘I-won-and-I-will-always-win’ smile and does just as you ask.

You hear the door shut behind him, and you know he’s finally gone.

You can’t make it to the bathroom fast enough.

You try. You really do. But still, there’s a trail of flower petals in your wake, just like there always is after you spend a night with Elias.

Your lungs burn. You can’t  _ breathe. _ You’ve got tears in your eyes, flowing down your face, as you choke on  _ petals, petals, petals. _ You spit up as many as you can into the toilet bowl, and they  _ don’t stop coming. _ You need to cough up _ more _ but you can’t get a breath in to fill your lungs, to expel more flowers, you can’t  _ inhale _ for the tulip petals catching the air, for the thistle scraping its way up your throat. You cough what little air you have out of your lungs and you can taste blood on your tongue and you spit up  _ petals, petals, petals— _

And you can breathe again.

You take deep, greedy gulps of air. This whole ordeal has left you with a more serious appreciation for oxygen. It has  _ also _ made you realize what a moron you are, and it has  _ also _ made you realize that you will continue to be a moron until some unspecified time in the future.

How could you  _ possibly _ have been so absolutely idiotic to fall in love with your horrible, evil boss who  _ clearly _ doesn’t care about anyone but himself? How could this have happened? And, once you  _ realized _ it was happening, how could you have then  _ fucked him? _ Why do you continue to fuck him when you know very well that it will only make this worse?

You cough again, a little weaker, and a dahlia petal makes its way into the toilet along with the rest of the bright, gorgeous, bloody bouquet. 

The flowers floating in the water tell you one thing: you need to stop loving him. You will literally die if you cannot stop loving him. You need to get your feelings under control, or get a surgery, or do  _ something  _ but you do need to stop loving him or you will die.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your voice raspy and quiet compared to the disgusting coughing fit you had just moments ago. “Fuck, I’m gonna die.”

You giggle a little maniacally and think that if it’s for Elias, it might very well be worth it.

* * *

You were aware of what was happening from the first moment it happened. Before even the petals came, before you had even had much interaction with Elias and you just knew him in your mind as “the hot boss,” before your tumultuous relationship of bickering and sex and, occasionally, kisses, before any of that, you knew you were going to fall in love with him. 

Something about how he  _ was. _ The way he walked and carried himself. The look in his eyes and the smirk on his face, or the smell of his cologne, or how he styled his hair, or how he looked with his suit jacket off and the sleeves rolled up so you could see his tattoos and  _ rings _ —

Maybe it was just Elias in his entirety that made you know that you were going to get a crush on him.

Regardless. A crush developed, and you dealt with it admirably, with decorum and propriety. And it was fine. Everything was fine. Really, it was! Everything was fine, until— 

“Excellent job, as always,” Elias said to you in your performance review and you absolutely  _ beamed _ with pride. For some reason, you felt more fluttery than before, more buoyant and thrilled at this little praise, at this little  _ as always, _ and you were practically walking on air out of his office.

And then—

And then you coughed.

A small, purple, dahlia petal. Elegance and dignity.

And your stomach sank.

* * *

“On a scale of one to ten,” you ask the laurel leaf in your hand as you scroll through the Wikipedia page for bay laurels on your phone, “how gross would it be if I used you in my soup?”

Laurels. Ambition, success, renown. No points for guessing who  _ that’s _ about.

You sigh. It irritates your throat to do so, but you’re dramatic enough that you think it’s worth the pain for the effect.

“Yeah, that’s probably too gross, huh?” you say. There  _ is  _ still blood on the leaf, after all.

You think of sharp teeth and soft lips, of a vicious grin and half-lidded eyes. 

You cough up another leaf. Still bloody.

You sigh and put them both in the trash, and reluctantly scrawl ‘bay leaves’ onto your shopping list.

* * *

You kissed Elias first.

Technically, he did orchestrate the whole thing, though  _ why _ you weren’t quite sure. But he did, most probably because he enjoyed puppetting people around and getting them to do his bidding, rather than committing to any specific action, himself. 

You’d found out that the Institute, and Elias, were more than they seemed. You’d found out about the murder, and the  _ powers, _ and Elias’s ties and power specifically.

The thought of him Knowing  _ your _ little secret sent a terrified thrill up your spine.

And still, you came back to him at the end of the day. Still, you returned to his office, because despite everything terrible you’d heard, despite how  _ awful _ and  _ monstrous _ he could be, he was still so beautiful, almost painfully so. And you still wanted to make him happy.

He Knew you were going to do this. Of course he did. He Knew practically everything.

He’d sat you down and asked if you had any questions, and all you were really paying attention to was the green of his eyes. You didn’t think eyes could be that green, and yet there they were. In Elias’s head, staring at you with smugness and pride. 

You knew, suddenly, that this was all a part of his plan, whatever that was. Looking into his eyes, you could tell that this was practically scripted with how perfectly it was going. You knew that you would kiss him, because he had apparently decided you would a long while ago, and there was nothing you could do to stop yourself, to resist.

And so you leaned forward and kissed him.

Things escalated fairly quickly from there.

You left his office, a little more red-faced than you had entered, a little more disheveled, a little out of out of breath.

You felt something make its way up your throat and, glancing at Elias’s door for a moment with barely-concealed panic, you managed to turn down the corner before you spat a tulip petal into your hand.

It was pretty; all the petals were, you supposed. But this one was different from other tulips. It wasn’t a solid color, but rather two-toned. 

_ Variegated, _ something in your mind told you.  _ It’s called a variegated tulip. _

You didn’t know how safe it was to check your phone at work, now that you knew your boss was an eldritch omniscient being with a penchant for snogging the life out of you.

And so they bitter realization when you looked up  _ variegated tulip _ to find  _ beautiful eyes _ as its meaning didn’t hit you until you were on your third glass of wine.

You sent an ill-advised tipsy text to your hot omniscient boss with a penchant for snogging the life out of you to get over it.

_ That _ worked out a lot better than you thought it would, and you had a very fun time until he left. And petals followed in his wake.

* * *

“Really, I’m  _ fine, _ ” you say, even as you pant and struggle to breathe. The thistles are always particularly vicious, scraping up your throat, always drawing blood. You can taste it, iron and a sickly warmth coating the inside of your mouth. You carefully hide your mouth behind your hand. 

“Really, you’re _not._ ” Martin shoves you back down into your chair and rather forcefully places a mug onto your desk. He sighs, irritation clear on his features. “Look, I know that everyone in the Archives has some sort of a— _masochistic_ _streak_ , or maybe a _death wish,_ or something, but you’re _clearly_ suffering right now and. Well, there’s not a lot you can do if you won’t get a surgery—”

Just the word, just the  _ thought _ hurts your heart so badly you are immediately sent into a coughing fit. And it  _ stings. _ You’ve progressed  _ far _ beyond just petals and leaves at this point, far beyond even just flower heads, and now the sharp stems of the thistle tear at the delicate lining of your throat, ripping and rending. You can cough the flowers into your mouth but the stems are too long, too thing, too deep in your lungs to be coughed up, and so as you try to gasp for air that you  _ can’t get you can’t breathe _ you very calmly reach your hand into your mouth and  _ pull _ the flowers out, and you can  _ feel _ the stems rip up your throat as you pull, you can feel the flaying and  _ pain. _

You pull one flower out and you get a brief gasp of air before the next one clogs your breathing.

By the time it’s over, six thistle flowers, stems and all, sit on your desk, soaked in blood. You sit, panting and exhausted.

“Thistle,” Martin remarks softly. He still looks a little horrified at what just happened, but he clearly knows his way around this thing, and knows quite well that there wouldn’t have been much he could do to help.

You nod, not trusting your voice yet. Not after that.

“Endurance and nobility,” he says, clearly trying to think of who that could be.

You laugh a little, and disgustingly, the sound gurgles through the blood in your throat. 

“Well, yes, he is that,” you say, sounding like you’ve smoked five packs a day for the past seventeen years, or maybe like you just ripped six thistle flowers out of your throat. “But I think  _ warning _ is the meaning that most applies in this case.”

Martin looks at you for a moment, examining you carefully. 

“Christ,” he says finally. “You  _ do _ have a masochistic streak.”

You laugh at that, genuinely laugh, and then choke on your own blood and cough for another moment. Thankfully, no flowers see fit to make an appearance, and after a few seconds you manage to get yourself back under control.

“I’ll be okay,” you say. “I mean, I won’t, but I’m alright with that.”

“And you don’t want to…?” He doesn’t make the mistake of saying ‘surgery’ again.

“No.”

He sighs. “Well. Your throat’ll be a bit raw right now, so you should probably be careful of what you eat. When it’s not so…  _ bloody, _ tea and honey usually soothes it fairly well.”

“…Thank you, Martin.” You’re not quite sure how he knows so much about all this.

“Yeah.”

Come to think of it, he never told you what his mother was ill with.

“I don’t want to…” Martin says suddenly, and you look up at him curiously. “I don’t want to watch you waste away over someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

You don’t really know what to say to that.

“Well, that was suitably dramatic, I think,” Elias drawls from the doorway.

You don’t think you’ve ever stood up faster in your entire life.

_ Don’t let him See them, _ your mind thinks frantically.

“I already know about the flowers, darling,” he says, his voice… a little softer than you thought it would be. 

Your heart sinks and there’s another fluttering in your chest. Of course he knows. You should’ve expected it.

Martin, however, seems far more  _ indignant _ than resigned. 

“You  _ knew? _ ” Martin asks, and you suddenly understand that you do not  _ ever _ want to piss him off. “You knew this whole time? You knew how  _ far _ it had progressed, you knew that it could  _ kill— _ ”

“Of course I knew, Martin,” he says calmly. “I know everything that goes on here. I most certainly know when someone is coughing up blood and flowers for love of me.”

Well, he doesn’t have to say it like  _ that, _ you think, and try to clear your throat. Try to keep from coughing.

Martin looks absolutely  _ furious. _ “You  _ knew  _ and you did  _ nothing— _ ”

“Martin,” you manage around the tickle in your throat, “it’s alright. Don’t—don’t worry about it, it’s fine.”

Elias sighs heavily and any disarming your statement might have done is instantly undone by this act. 

“Martin, it’s okay. Please. Just. I can deal with Elias, why don’t you go on and…”

Martin looks at you incredulously. Then to Elias. Then back to you.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine! Fine, I’m leaving. I quite frankly do  _ not _ want to get involved in the romantic squabbles of my evil boss and apparently insane coworker. I hope you two are very happy with each other.”

He pushes his way past Elias and storms down the hallway.

Now it’s just you and Elias.

…Maybe sending Martin away was a bad idea, actually.

“It wasn’t,” Elias says, stepping further into the room. He walks over to your desk and picks up a thistle flower, examining it carefully. “A bad idea, I mean. This would be better as a private talk, I think.”

“Please stop reading my mind. And come to think of it, I think this would be better if we didn’t talk at all. We can just pretend it never happened.”

Elias looks at you for a moment, the thistle still held loosely in his hand. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes. “Is  _ that _ what you think I want?”

“Well, yes,” you say. “It’s not your fault I was dumb enough to fall in love with you. And I know you’re going to try and… make me get rid of them, but I just… I can’t do that. I don’t want to.”

“While your loyalty to me is endearing, I would rather not watch you die.”

“Why not.” You sag back against your desk. The fear that Elias might see is gone now, because of course he already knew. You’re left with nothing but… resignation. “Why not? You watch people die all the time. Why am I any different?”

“Why, exactly, do you think I started a relationship with you?” he asks, exasperation clear in his voice.

“Well, I—” You blink at him, confused. “I wasn’t aware that it was a  _ relationship, _ as such. I thought you just wanted to get off and I was devoted enough to, well. Help you out with that.”

He snorts. “If I wanted to  _ get off  _ I have people who’ve been begging to get in my pants for decades. But I chose  _ you. _ So why do you think that is?”

“I don’t  _ know, _ Elias,” you snap. “I don’t know why you do  _ anything. _ You’re an enigma wrapped in a mystery covered in bizarre plans and spreadsheets. I cannot fathom why you would have started to sleep with me. Because you knew I was in love with you? You knew I was devoted enough to want you and love you despite every terrible thing you’ve done? I have no  _ fucking _ idea, so stop it with the socratic fucking method and just  _ say _ whatever it is you clearly want to say. You don’t have to be cryptic  _ all  _ the time, you know.”

He puts the flower back down on your desk and wipes his fingers with a handkerchief, still fixing you with an unimpressed look. “I haven’t been  _ cryptic, _ I thought I was being rather obvious.”

“Well  _ clearly, _ we have different definitions of  _ obvious! _ ”

“Let me ask you this—”

“ _ Christ, _ again with the questions, why can’t you just talk like a normal person—”

“ _ Why _ would I have started this relationship with you if I knew you were already dying for me?”

You… pause, at that. That was a rude thing to say. True, but rude.

You sigh. “Fine, say your monologue bit. I don’t know how I love you.”

He rolls his eyes, but continues anyway. “If I knew you were dying for me, and we’ve established I would rather you  _ not _ do that, clearly I should have been trying to diminish your feelings for me. And yet.”

And yet, indeed. You don’t—understand what he’s trying to say here, but you also know that he has a point. 

He looks expectantly at you. You stare blankly back, waiting for him to continue.

“Fine,” he says, sighing dramatically. “I suppose I’ll just have to Show you.”

He steps towards you and, rocking up onto his toes for a moment, kisses you on the forehead.

And you See.

This is a memory, and you See yourself smiling at you. You’re handing over some file or other and there is such  _ fondness _ in your heart, looking at your form. A respect for loyalty. A respect for industry. A respect for the smile that lights up your eyes.

The scene shifts and you See flower petals trailing out of your mouth. You see blood dripping from the corner of your lips and the image of you keeps coughing up dahlias, like little down feathers, puffing out of your mouth, and this image…  _ hurts, _ somehow. 

And then you See kisses. You see kisses and gentle affection, you see company and attention, you see the rise and fall of your chest as you Watch yourself sleep, and there’s a warmth that comes with the image. You see warmth and smiles, nights spent together, moments of conversation and soft touches that expose a sweetness and sentiment that cannot be denied.

“I rather thought,” Elias says as your eyes turn back into your own and you can only see what’s in front of you, and that is  _ Elias, _ put-together and beautiful, “that if you were aware that your feelings might not be so hopelessly unrequited as you believed, you might have gotten over this… sickness.”

“Oh,” you say. You can’t do much else but look at him, and the stretch of his sarcastic smile, and for the first time in months you breathe without feeling like you’re having a panic attack.

“Yes,  _ oh. _ Clearly, it backfired, given I forgot to take into account how dense you can be. You were so caught up in your dramatic, unrequited love that you somehow didn’t realize I don’t give long, lingering kisses to people I’m just fuckbuddies with. At  _ work, _ no less.”

You huff. “Well, maybe you didn’t give me enough long, lingering kisses. And maybe, if you just  _ told _ me instead of being  _ cryptic— _ don’t look at me like that, you were absolutely being cryptic, dropping hints rather than just  _ talking _ to me—”

Elias interrupts you with one of those long, lingering kisses (at  _ work,  _ no less) and yeah, alright, maybe you were a bit dense in not realizing how affectionate this was. But you suffered a  _ lot _ for love of this man, and you deserved a few more long, lingering kisses to make up for it.

He smiles against your mouth. “I’ll give you as many as you like, darling. Now that I don’t have to worry about getting a whole tulip in my mouth—”

“Shut  _ up _ you insufferable bastard. Your fault, anyway,” you mumble, and stop his mouth with a kiss. 

* * *

Three days later, he comes to pick you up for dinner with a bouquet of thistles and purple heather.

You miss when you try to smack him upside the head, and he laughs and gives you another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> just started using [twitter](https://twitter.com/bluezaffre) so come say hi to me!!


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